


The Long Slide

by Tea_and_Sympathy



Series: Northern Sky [2]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: A late valentine, Anyone want to know what happens on Monday?, Didn't even know I wanted to write a Scosner, Had no idea I could be this mushy, I've been nice to them - honest, M/M, Shameless (shameful) romance, You know I've already started
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22845997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_Sympathy/pseuds/Tea_and_Sympathy
Summary: In which Scripps and Posner have a day out in the country and get sprinkled with fairy dust (kinda).As the afternoon wears on, they fall to indolence, contemplation and old habits. Scripps sitting, legs out, ankles crossed, face up to the sun and Pos with his head on Scripps’ thigh looking at the deep blue air, plucking at the grass.
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps
Series: Northern Sky [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642348
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	The Long Slide

**Author's Note:**

> Someone (you know who you are) put the idea of a sequel in my head and I was lost! I've tried hard to get Posner's voice (I doubted I could do it). He's a bit whiny and a bit camp but not so much that I don't still love him. I hope he's still clever, funny and wise. Apologies to anyone more familiar with the topography of Sheffield than me.

**SUNDAY**

“David...David!... DAVID...come on. It’s Donald on the phone. Hurry up”.

Scripps hears Posner calling from further away, “I’m coming, calm down”, and his stomach twists waiting for the lovely, sing-song, “Scrippsy...”

“Hi Pos. What you up to?”

“Sorry, I was outside. I thought I’d drag my bike out and give it some attention. It’s a bit neglected”.

“Good idea... Listen, I’m sorry about last night”. He doesn’t know what else he means to say - doesn’t even know why he’s calling. But he’s been awake since dawn, Tom Irwin’s words rattling round his head.

“Wasn’t your fault”.

“Yeah but...”

“...Is the “fucking thing” sorted out then?”

“For now, yes, I think it might be.”

“And they didn’t kill each other?”

“Not yet”.

“More’s the pity. I don’t want to know any more about it”.

“Yes, you do. It’s like picking scabs”.

“Scrippsy, that’s horrid”.

“Sorry. You will want to know some of it, I promise. I tell you what, if I get my bike out too, do you fancy a ride out to the river – like we used to”.

“It’s Sunday, don’t you have Church?”

“I’ve got a note - please excuse Donald, he’s having a temporary crisis of faith”.

“Are you?”

“A bit. The Big Man won’t mind. I should probably get outside and wonder at Creation”.

Posner starts to sing, his clear voice carrying further than he’d intended “All things bright and beautiful; All creatures great and small...”

Scripps hears a far-off yell, “David!”

He calls back, “There’s no Jesus in it, Dad, just nature...I think I got away with that. See you at ten. Usual place?”

“Yeah. See you later.”

*******

They meet at the usual place. It’s been a few years since they did this, but the usual place needs no explanation - it’s been the usual place since they were twelve.

The grey dawn has ripened with the promise of a gentle, early summer’s day; they ride west out of town, heading towards the Peaks. They pass the sites of old battle grounds – primary school, football pitches, scout huts – out of suburbia, up-hill, and further up, until they can stop to look back over the city and out further still towards the East Riding beyond. Home has felt small and provincial since coming back, but not up here – here they take a moment to breathe and polish some of their scuffed Yorkshire pride.

“God’s Own County”, Posner proclaims from the viewpoint.

“You sound like my dad”.

“Doesn’t make it wrong”.

“True, Pos, true – it’s something, isn’t it?”

And downhill – freewheeling, shouting and laughing to their favorite spot by the river, secluded and backed by a steep bank.

Their bikes are thrown on the grass, along with Scripps’ back pack. They sit facing the water, throwing the occasional pebble and watching the ripples - it saves having to look at each other.

Posner sighs, “Go on then, let’s get it over with”.

Scripps steels himself against the blow he would take for Pos, if he could, “They’re in love, Pos, I’m sorry. Irwin knows, but Dakin hasn’t worked it out yet”.

“He always was a bit slow on the uptake. Did he say that? Irwin - did he say he loves him?”

“Not in so many words - I told him he loves him and he didn’t disagree, which amounts to the same thing with Irwin. I’m really sorry”.

“Stop saying sorry, it’s not your fault. Anyway, it’s fine. I’m glad. I’d rather that - their being in love - than Dakin pissing around, like normal. I can bear it, if it’s important”. He throws a stone with more force than gentle pebble tossing requires. The ripples disturb a passing duck.

“Pos, you seem so unhappy. Is it still Stu?”

“No. I think I made him up”.

“He looked pretty real yesterday when he was snoring on Irwin’s settee”.

“No, I mean I had an idea of him, but it wasn’t real. I suppose I still fancy him a bit - he’s very pretty - but there’s no substance to it. It’s passing and I’m not sad about it”.

“You’re angry though. Who with? him? Irwin?”

“No. Myself”.

“Why would you be angry with yourself?”

“Wasting time. Making a fool of myself. Humiliating myself”.

“No one’s laughing at you, Pos”.

“Dakin thought I was hilarious”.

“He didn’t know how to handle it, that’s all. He’s all mouth...”

“...and no trousers”.

When they’ve finished laughing at the memory of that ridiculous, glorious morning, Scripps puts his arm round his friend and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Oh, Pos, you do wear your heart on your sleeve. He thinks he’s some great libertine but he’s bloody repressed, emotionally - like Irwin. Feelings don’t need to achieve the permanence of art to be worthwhile. And you didn’t make a fool of yourself, you were brave and honest – you always are.”

Posner, relaxes against him, “You’re very wise, aren’t you? What would I do without you?”

Scripps wants to tell him never to try. “I’m positively sagacious. So, it’s not Stu – no more than an emotional hangover. What is it then? Can I help?”

“Yes, Fred, you always help”.

“Stop that, you are not Celia Johnson”.

“Shame. What have you got in that bag”?

“Lunch, bicycle pump and a Thermos – we’ll have to share the cup”.

“A picnic! Scrippsy, how romantic”.

“Someone’s got to be practical and cheese and pickle sarnies and a bit of my mum’s seed cake do not a picnic make”.

“I’m partial to your mum’s seed cake. Anyway, you may say it’s a guitar, to a mad man in love this is a mandolin”.

“What?”

“Oh, Scrippsy, don’t let me down. It’s so long since we’ve played. I miss it; I miss him, to be honest”.

How to deny such a plaintive request? “Okay, if you insist. What if I say...it’s a play...it’s Russian...it’s...” Scripps starts to sing...

_"Oh, that the heart was warmed,_   
_By all the flames of love returned!"_

Posner laughs with delight and declaims, _“I'm an educated man, I read various remarkable books, but I cannot understand the direction I myself want to go--whether to live or to shoot myself, as it were. So, in case, I always carry a revolver about with me. Here it is”._

He grabs the bicycle pump, holds it to his temple and falls back on the grass.

“The Cherry Orchard”.

“Yes! Oh, you’re good. Can I have a sandwich please”.

They eat - mostly in silence - passing the thermos cup back and forth - watching dragonflies, butterflies - all manner of beautiful ephemera. Scripps is himself considering the direction to go - whether to live or shoot himself.

Eventually he tries again, “Pos, please, I’m worried about you. Everyone’s worried about you”.

“Everyone? Only you give a toss”.

“That’s not true. Come on. Every time I see you, you’re more down. What is it?”

“I’m perfectly happy now. Here and now”.

“That’s good but now’s only today and, unfortunately, we can’t stay here forever”.

“Yes, unfortunately...well, I hate my course, for a start. And I used to not fit in in a tiny bowl and now I don’t fit in in a huge pond. I think I’m going to drown. Everyone is so posh and not Jewish and definitely not homosexual”.

“I’m with you on posh. I feel like a performing seal sometimes. I swear I’m only allowed to speak so they can listen to my funny accent. Have you noticed how Dakin’s losing his?”

“He’s a chameleon. I don’t think he means to do it - he just knows how to fit in - unlike me. Is there a Northern Oik society? We could join that together - or start one”.

“We’ll call it Pigeon Fanciers Anonymous. Imagine what it’s like for Crowther and Akhtar - funny accents, religion and colour. We’re getting off lightly, considering.

“Straight though. That’s a plus”. Scripps notices he doesn’t seem to extend him this advantage.

“I suppose. Why are you doing history anyway? You know you should be doing English”.

“I know! I went along with what everyone else was doing because I didn’t want to be on my own. But just because you can, doesn’t mean you should, does it? I really miss the poetry, the literature, all of it”.

“What’s your tutor like. Could you talk to him?”

“Her, actually. She’s nice - yeah, I think I could. But, God, it would be like coming out to a teacher all over again. That didn’t go very well last time”.

“We talked about that – Irwin and I. He wanted me to tell you he’s sorry”.

Posner looks incredulous. “Really?”

“He said, and I quote - ahem - tell him I’m sorry I was an insensitive prick”.

“Fuck. He really was a prick too. Did he really say that?”

“Yeah. He thinks he let you down. He’s alright, Pos. Everything that’s happened - Hector - everything - it’s changed him... no, not changed him...made him more himself. It might be a good idea to talk to him. He’s not your teacher anymore, or anyone’s teacher, for that matter”.

“What would be the point?”

“He says you remind him of him - you'd be surprised how much you have in common”.

Scripps’ poor heart feels as though it will burst. These were his recurrent, circular thoughts in the insomniac hours between dawn and picking up the phone:

 _“he's so unhappy; he needs to get away from us; he needs to get away from me; he’ll grow into himself; he won’t need me; I’ll lose him; he’ll fall in love; he’ll have his heart broken; he’ll break hearts - mine probably; but he’s so unhappy_ ”. To live or shoot himself? But Scripps is a good friend, the best kind of friend - he pulls out the revolver.

“I don’t think there’s a society for flat caps and whippets but there’s a Gay and Lesbian society, have you thought about joining?”

“I’ve thought about it but I’m not brave enough. And it’s not about sex; I’m not ready for that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You’re the bravest person I know and you need to make connections with other people - people who’ll understand...”

“...People who won’t think I’m a freak?”

“Yes... I mean, no. You’re not a freak. May I remind you that our very good friend, who has never shown the slightest inclination in that direction before, is, as we speak (probably), in flagrante, with our erstwhile teacher – male teacher”.

“Stop it, please!” Posner puts his hands over his ears.

And Scripps gently removes them, “What I mean is, it’s not that unusual and you are not a freak”.

Scripps doesn’t let go of his hands and Posner stares at them a while before saying, “Scrippsy? I wish you could do it with me”.

“I can’t do that, Pos. I’ll come with you if you want to sign up but I can’t, can I?”

“Because you’re not...”

“...I don’t know if I’m anything; I really don’t know. And you need to do it on your own”.

Posner looks crestfallen, rejected, and Scripps wants so badly to change the subject and pull him back to him. He untwines their hands and goes on. “Look, just think about it, okay. Anyway, Irwin was asking me whether we still played together – he thinks you have a beautiful voice”. Posner wrinkles his nose. “I was trying to explain how great it feels when we do, but I couldn’t find the right word. What is it, Dictionary Boy, for you know, when…?”

“…Transcendent – being beyond human experience and not subject to the limitations of the material universe”.

“How did you know what I was going to say? I haven’t described it yet”.

“You don’t have to; It’s me”.

“Yeah, silly me – fancy”. Scripps rolls his eyes. “I was wondering if you want to do more. There’s an open mic night at the Red Lion on Friday - we could give it a go”.

“In public?”

“Yes, in public. You’d be great”.

“We’d be great. Okay - we’ll need some new songs; what shall we do?”

Scripps starts to sing and laugh - knowing this one won’t fly...

 _“Mad about the boy_  
 _I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy_  
 _I'm so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I've had_  
 _About the boy..._ ”

...Oh, I love that! You tease - even I’m not naïve enough to think we could do that in the pub. We’d get beaten up. Well, I would. Shame though”.

“Some more Rogers & Hart then. Blue Moon”

“Yes, nice. I like, My Funny Valentine, _“don’t change a hair for me, not if you care for me”._ So melancholic. Can we do that?”

“If it makes you happy, Pos”.

“Being melancholic? I do like a minor key”.

“I’ve noticed. I suppose we will have to drag ourselves into the latter part of the 20th century, eventually”.

“Must we?”

“No, not if you don’t want to. Humankind cannot bear very much reality”.

“Eliot!"

“A man on a journey towards God...”

“...An anti-Semite".

“Yes, but if we’re not to be allowed to separate the art from the artist, we’re not going to have much left, are we – people being what they are. Did you feel bad about what you wrote in your exam?”

“No, I decided he was right”.

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s about what he said about having no perspective on the recent past. I was thinking about how easy it was to dismiss it as an aberration – a manifestation of evil. But those people, those men, weren’t monsters - that’s the point, they were just men. They went home at night and kissed their wives and read their children bed time stories, I expect. If we pretend it was outside our comprehension, we pretend we couldn’t do that. They were human beings doing fucking terrible things to other human beings. And we all could. Good people do bad things. All this reverence gets in the way of vigilance”.

“Shit, Pos, you should definitely see him, he’d love that”.

“I don’t know if he deserves it”.

“Don’t be mean. Irwin’s a good man who did some shitty stuff and Hector definitely was...”

“...You’re not suggesting Hector was a like a Nazi?”

“Of course not. He was a good man, we all loved him, but he did bad things - not terrible things but, you know.

“Not to me, he didn’t”. A cloud passes between them; the memories are still too raw to face daylight.

After a while, Posner ventures, “Why Christianity anyway?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well you’re a Christian and I’m a Jew but only because our parents are. You can’t be born with a belief can you – it has to grow. There’s culture and everything – but faith, surely you have to work that out for yourself. Think of all those other sources of guilt and shame we could be missing out on”.

“I suppose it’s because I’m quite keen on Jesus”.

“He’s a pop star”.

“Yes, that’s it, I’ve got a crush on a pop star”.

“But Scrippsy, we can never marry unless you convert”.

Scripps winces - hoping it doesn’t show. “Don’t, Pos”.

“Sorry, did I hit a nerve? I was only teasing; I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. But, anyway, all of these religions have one thing in common, so it must be the point of it all - eternity – the afterlife. And I don’t get the afterlife. It’s meant to be comforting, isn’t it - spending an eternity with your loved ones? But what if I want to spend eternity with someone who doesn’t want to spend eternity with me? How awful”.

Scripps gives him a friendly punch on the arm. “You’re hopeless. Never mind eternity, what about now? Do you know what I really want to do?”

“What?”

“Roll down that hill, like we used to”.

“No! Last time we did that I got a tic. On my neck! It was gruesome.”

Oh yeah, you thought you had a mole until it fell off and had legs. I can hear your mum shrieking now. It was hilarious. C’mon, Pos, let’s live dangerously”.

They climb to the top of the bank, Posner grumbling they’re too old for this and wouldn’t it have been a good idea to have done it before they had a belly full of Branston Pickle and tea. Scripps ploughs on.

And so, to roll down: Larkin’s long slide to happiness being not so much a smooth descent, as an exhilarating, unstoppable, painful plummet to land together in a breathless, groaning, laughing heap at the bottom.

As the afternoon wears on, they fall to indolence, contemplation and old habits. Scripps sitting, legs out, ankles crossed, face up to the sun and Pos with his head on Scripps’ thigh looking at the deep blue air, plucking at the grass. They’ve lain like this often enough before - chatting, laughing, neither of them thinking for a moment that most friends don’t – wouldn’t. If you were to ask Don Scripps why this is so easy and yesterday’s hug was so awkward, he would say, “Well, it’s Pos”, and that would be the only explanation you would get.

“I’m practically a year younger than the rest of you. Dakin’s almost twenty-one and I’m not twenty yet”.

“It won’t matter in a few years. There’s a bigger age gap between my mum and dad than Irwin and Dakin – it all evens out in the end. You’ve done pretty well though - for a summer-born boy - with your scholarship. Anyway, it’s your birthday soon, what do you want?”

Posner, in his best Southern Belle, “I'll tell you what I want. Magic! Yes, yes, magic”.

“Alright, Blanche, I’ll see what I can do”.

“I can’t catch you out!”

“No, but don’t stop trying, Pos – please".

“But we have no pot. I’ll have to pay you in kisses”.

“What?” Scripps feels a flush rising up his neck and is thankful Posner can’t see his face.

“Sorry, no – it's a family thing- a sad thing. I had a great aunt who used to let me pay her in kisses when I was bankrupt in Monopoly. I thought it was a bit creepy at the time, but I’m sad about it now”.

“Tell me”.

“Oh, she died about five years ago and we had a party - a wake, I suppose - at her house. I was looking at all the photos of her and her husband - he died about ten years before, so I never knew him. There were wedding photos and they looked so young and beautiful and in love. They didn’t have any children - don’t know why - and I realised that, after he died, nobody touched her anymore. Not really touched her – you know. A whole decade untouched – it's too sad. And these little contrivances to be physically close were all she had. She’d ask for an arm to help her out of a chair or across the road and for Monopoly kisses. If she were still alive, I’d give her all the kisses she wanted. It’s important, isn’t it - touching?”

Scripps wonders if it would be possible to adore him any more than he does in this moment. “Yeah, it really is. Is that why you went to Hector when he cried? I was ashamed, I didn’t. I was rooted to my seat”.

“Yes, it’s part of growing up isn’t it - realising other people have inner lives and wants and needs too – even old people - even teachers”.

And so, it turns out, it is possible to adore him a tiny bit more. “You are funny. Did you ever think you were the most mature of us? The youngest, but the most mature”.

“I did, actually, yes. But none of you believed me... Scrippsy, I’m scared it will be me, like my auntie, but forever - without even the long and happy bit”.

“I promise it won’t be”.

“I don’t mean sex”.

“I know you don’t. I promise it won’t be you”.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me, Pos”. Scripps brushes a wisp from Posner’s forehead and, without thinking, runs the hand back through his hair. And, as though Pos’ wish for magic had been heard by some mischievous nymph, there is unmistakably more than friendship in it.

Pos gives a small shiver, though the day is warm. He turns to look at Scripps from his awkward angle and stares at him as best he can for what feels like an age. “Scripps? Scrippsy?..when...when did...?”

Scripps can’t meet his gaze, he’s looking over to the trees, “I don’t know; I don’t know ...it just... it just is...isn’t it?”

Posner scrabbles to sit up and see what Scripps is staring at. He’s looking over to where, as kids, they would hide and giggle and spy on what his mum calls courting couples. He doesn’t know if Scripps is fearful or nostalgic, but he cups his face in his hands and turns him back towards him. He whispers, “Scrippsy, we’re not there anymore - we’re here” and places a soft kiss on his friend’s lips.

They rest their foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing falling in the same slow waves.

Scripps pulls away enough to look at his beautiful boy and notices he’s caught the sun – a pink bloom developing over his nose and cheeks. He imagines he’s the same, but the burn will be no more tender than the one he can feel blossoming on his lip. He kisses him back – a delicate, butterfly’s wing kiss, not yet passion but promising everything, “It looks like it, doesn’t it?”

Pos gives him a twinkling smile. “Yes. So, we’re going to need to practise – the new songs, I mean. Can I come to yours tomorrow?”

And Scripps twinkles back, “Of course you can, Pos”.

*******

Tonight, he will lie in bed and think about the things unsaid and those sweet kisses in the drowsy, golden afternoon. Eventually he’ll get on his knees - out of habit - because recently there’s only been silence in response. It’s a conversation as difficult to start as yesterday’s, and as impossible to predict. He’ll ask these questions:

Can I have this?

Is this what I think it is?

Will you still love me if I choose this?

If he needs someone to spend eternity with, can it be me - please?

Answers will come, eventually. Whether the still, small voice of calm speaks to him from within or without, he isn’t sure - but the answers are the same. He will get up with sore knees and aching back and root around for his neglected journal. Under today’s date, he will write:

 ~~I love David Posner; I want to make him happy~~.

He will consider and then strike it through because he hasn’t the temerity - knows that the journey from one to the other may be long and full of heartache and because, as a writer, he prefers the nuance of:

I Love David Posner; I want him to be happy.


End file.
